


Grow Old With Me

by DeskGirl



Series: Pair of Aces [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hanzo Shimada has Prosthetic Legs, Internal Conflict, M/M, POV Hanzo Shimada, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeskGirl/pseuds/DeskGirl
Summary: They had found the strength to talk about difficult things—not all of them, but some. For those things they couldn’t voice, the two of them brushed against the edges and found the sharp corners, memorizing the shapes so they could navigate around them. Still, there were these moments where the ghosts of old anxieties surprised them.In the safe embrace of the man Hanzo has come to think of as home, he tentatively reflects on what the future may hold for them both.Fourth installment of"Pair of Aces,"coming after"Something a Little Sweeter,""Matching Pair,"and"What You Have to Say to Me."(Can be read as a stand-alone, but I recommend it as a series for the full effect.)
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Pair of Aces [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1277165
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66





	Grow Old With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Reference Credit: Topics of forgiveness and healing come up in this story. As we do not actually know the Shambali Order's philosophy on these topics, I turned to Buddhism to inform Zenyatta's opinion. I used this article, ["Forgiveness is not Buddhist,"](https://tricycle.org/magazine/forgiveness-not-buddhist/) specifically. It's an interesting read that I think suits both Genji's change of heart and Hanzo's own redemption arc (and his struggle with it).

Hanzo dug through the closet looking for his sweat jacket—the one Jesse had bought him on their date at the Zia Rodeo. He clucked his tongue at the way everything was haphazardly hung. He’d been away for a week in South Korea with Dr. Zhou, Brigitte, and Genji. In the meantime, Jesse had taken it upon himself to do laundry for the away team. While everyone else’s clothes were neatly folded in baskets in the laundry room, he’d gone the extra mile and put Hanzo’s things away for him. 

Hanzo smoothed out a few shirts and moved things around until he was satisfied. He preferred to keep micro-armor undershirts to one end of the closet and his few dress clothes together so he didn’t accidentally wrinkle them. One of Jesse’s plaid shirts—the one that Hanzo borrowed on rare occasion when Jesse was gone—had been mixed in with his things. He wasn’t sure if Jesse had done that on purpose or not. 

Failing to find his jacket, Hanzo pulled on a fresh t-shirt and layered the pilfered plaid shirt over the top. 

The sound of the door opening made Hanzo pause and tense reflexively, but he recognized the sound of Jesse’s footsteps and relaxed.

“Oh good, you’re done cleanin’ up.” Before Hanzo could turn around, arms wrapped around his waist and a chin settled on his shoulder. Jesse’s beard tickled his jawline. The smell of fresh tobacco smoke rolled over Hanzo, sharp against the mellow scent of his soap.

He let them stay like that a few moments before straightening and patting Jesse’s arms. “Do you know where my sweat jacket is?”

“Which one?”

“The one you bought me.”

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. You’ll find it if you look around.” 

Jesse’s tone was too casual. “What did you”—Hanzo twisted in Jesse’s arms. He was greeted by Jesse wearing his jacket. He was grinning mischievously, laughing eyes half-lidded and crinkling at the corners.

Jesse’s mouth stretched wider, a nervous edge to it as he waited for Hanzo’s reaction. 

Hanzo’s hands had come to rest against Jesse’s chest. He could feel the faint pulse of his heart under his palm and the rise and fall of his breathing. Hanzo licked his lips absently, his mouth dry. Since his first night away, a gentle ache had settled in his chest, squeezing his heart. It came all the time nowadays whenever one of them was gone on a mission. It was easy enough to bear so long as Hanzo kept busy, but at night it spread over him like a smothering blanket and made it difficult to sleep. Now, in the circle of Jesse’s arms, the ache burst into bright, demanding need. Hanzo resisted for only a moment before relenting and leaning in to press his face to the crook of Jesse’s shoulder. His hands slipped around to Jesse’s back, first loose and then clenching into fists.

“I got’cha,” Jesse said. Hanzo felt his prosthesis climb up to press between his shoulder blades while his other hand stayed at the small of his back, warm even through two layers of clothing.

Hanzo let himself relax, all the tension of the week-long mission that he’d been unknowingly carrying finally leaving him. He sighed into Jesse’s shoulder and felt the ghost of lips against the side of his head in response. 

“You’re a thief,” Hanzo mumbled, not lifting his head.

“Pardon?”

Dropping his arms, Hanzo dug a finger into Jesse’s side just under his ribs. Jesse jumped and let out a squawk, giving Hanzo as much space as he could without letting go completely.

“You are a thief,” Hanzo repeated. He looped a hand in the collar of his sweat jacket. “Have you been wearing this all week? Or did you put it on just now knowing full well I would be coming back today?” 

“Which one’s gonna get me in more trouble?” Jesse asked. 

“It depends entirely on your motives.”

“Maybe I just missed you.” Jesse’s crooked grin said otherwise.

“Maybe you are a liar as well as a thief.”

“And what’s your excuse?” 

As they spoke, they had fallen into a sort of shuffling dance with Hanzo pushing into Jesse’s personal space and Jesse not so much retreating as drawing Hanzo along. Now Jesse twisted away and caught hold of the open plaid shirt Hanzo was wearing. He tugged, and Hanzo turned to close the distance again, vaguely aware that he had Jesse pinned against the side of the bed.

“I did not hang your shirt in my closet,” Hanzo pointed out. “And I would have worn my jacket had you not taken it.”

“Is that so? Well then maybe I’ll just keep wearin’ your jacket so you keep wearin’ my shirts.”

“You will give my jacket back, or I will take it back.”

“I’d like t’ see you try.”

Hanzo held Jesse’s gaze for a long moment. Jesse just smirked. 

Whether Jesse was challenging him or he truly thought there would be no repercussions for his actions, Hanzo wasn’t sure. He intended to win either way. Deftly, he slipped his foot forward and hooked it around Jesse’s ankle. Realization dawned on Jesse’s face a split second before Hanzo tripped him and shoved. 

Jesse hit the bed with a grunt. Hanzo climbed on top in a flash, settling his weight on Jesse’s hips and pinning his shoulders to the mattress. He flashed a triumphant smile as he leaned in, intending to steal a kiss.

Underneath him, Hanzo felt Jesse tense. Hands flew to his hips, gripping too tight. They let up almost immediately, though they didn’t retreat, fingers still curled like claws. Jesse’s face was carefully blank, but Hanzo had already seen in his eyes the moment of uncertainty bordering on panic followed quickly by guilt before he was able to disguise it. 

They knew one another. They had learned their limits and their body language. Hanzo could tell by the set of Jesse’s shoulders when he needed space or secretly wanted to be held. Jesse had learned that when Hanzo touched his hand a certain way, he was looking for comfort, and when he touched Jesse’s shoulder, he was offering it. They had found the strength to talk about difficult things—not all of them, but some. For those things they couldn’t voice, the two of them brushed against the edges and found the sharp corners, memorizing the shapes so they could navigate around them.

Still, there were these moments where the ghosts of old anxieties surprised them. It was like tripping over something they’d forgotten was there and struggling to catch themselves. 

Hanzo sat up. When he laid his hands over Jesse’s, he felt his grip relax. He took his time, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of Jesse’s hands before lifting each of them and kissing the mismatched knuckles. When he glanced at Jesse, he found him watching intently. He held his gaze as he turned one hand over to kiss the palm, then the other. Jesse’s long fingers curled against his cheeks as if to return the gesture. 

As this went on, Jesse slowly melted into the mattress, arms limp in Hanzo’s hold. 

Once he was satisfied, Hanzo guided Jesse’s hands to the bed on either side of his head. “Stay,” he said, voice gentle but firm. He looked around for his phone and spotted it on his pillow. Normally he set it in the charger, but he’d been in a rush to clean up and find Jesse, so he’d tossed it onto the bed without a thought. He reached for it now.

“What’re you up to?” Jesse asked. When he started to move, Hanzo quickly laid a hand on his chest. “Sorry.” Jesse went still again. “But really, what’re you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” Hanzo said as he unlocked his phone and switched to the camera. 

“Really?”

“Mm.” 

Jesse had every reason to sound surprised. Hanzo was not one to take photos; he preferred to live in the moment rather than documenting it. It was something that set the two of them apart. While Hanzo focused on committing an experience to memory, Jesse preferred to have photos as mementos. He described them as touchstones. They helped him remember details and reminded him why the moment had been worth preserving. 

While Jesse had dozens of photos of the two of them together and dozens more of Hanzo, Hanzo had none of his own—a fact that had become apparent during the South Korea mission when he went looking through his phone one lonely night for pictures of Jesse. 

Hanzo wanted to save this moment forever. He wanted to be able to carry it with him wherever he went so he’d never forget what home looked like. 

Home looked like a man with gentle eyes, lying on clean white sheets with his hair spread around his face like a halo. It looked like two strong hands that held him with such reverence that it left him breathless. Home was Jesse mouthing the words, ‘Love you,’ right as Hanzo adjusted the camera settings and took a picture. The photo captured Jesse in the moment after; his mouth had gone soft, the words still lingering on his parted lips, the ghost of a smile tugging at one corner. 

“Satisfied?” Jesse asked when Hanzo was quiet for too long, busy saving the photo to a secure private album. 

Hanzo hummed. “It will do.” He felt more than heard Jesse’s chuckle, and then there were hands on his hips again, gently caressing. They drifted down the outsides of his thighs, stopping at his knees. Hanzo turned off his phone and raised an eyebrow at Jesse. 

Hanzo’s silent question was met with a silent answer as Jesse shrugged. He began to massage Hanzo’s knees, fingers rubbing circles where the scars began just above the prosthetic sockets. They lingered there for a minute before shifting back up Hanzo’s thighs, and now he felt it: hearts, not circles, being worked into sore muscles. Another silent ‘I love you.’ 

Hanzo set his phone aside and leaned down. He braced his weight on his forearms, Jesse’s beaming face framed between them, and kissed him. 

Jesse kissed back, his hands going still. Hanzo felt him smile against his lips and his chest catch as he tried not to laugh.

“What is it?” Hanzo asked, pulling back so that their noses barely brushed.

“I still got your jacket,” Jesse said smugly.

Right. His jacket. Hanzo pressed a hand to Jesse’s face as he sat up, getting a laugh and an indignant “Hey!” in response. 

He looked down his nose at Jesse as imperiously as he could before relenting: “I suppose I can let you borrow it a bit longer. You look good in my things.” 

“How kind of you.”

Hanzo shifted off of Jesse’s lap to lie down beside him on the bed. He tangled his fingers with Jesse’s as he stared up at the ceiling. The cool metal quickly warmed in his grip. 

“Jesse.”

“Hm?”

“Did I tell you that I missed you?”

“Don’t think you did. Not out loud, anyways.”

“I missed you. I always miss you.”

“I do, too.” The hand in Hanzo’s grip flexed. “Won’t be like this forever, though.”

“No, it won’t,” Hanzo agreed softly. The thought was accompanied by a swooping sensation in his stomach. 

When Jesse had first tentatively broached the subject of life after Overwatch, Hanzo had wanted to run from the conversation. It seemed that was his answer to most problems, and he hated himself for it. But he knew he couldn’t run from the future, so that night Hanzo sat at the kitchen bar with Jesse sharing watered-down whiskey as they each talked about what they thought the future might look like. 

Nothing was final. There were too many factors to make any solid plans. Overwatch was building public support, but they were still in violation of the Petras Act. If the UN didn’t root them out and forcibly disband them within the next few years, Jesse had suggested shifting from field ops to training others—there were plenty of young people out there trying to be heroes who didn’t have half their skill or discipline. Jesse was reluctant to abandon Overwatch a second time, Hanzo could tell, and he himself had grown attached to the ragtag group of vigilantes who’d given him a new purpose, so they’d agreed they would stay if possible.

If Overwatch dissolved—by force or on their own terms—the possibilities became much broader. There were plenty of places in the world where two men with their skillsets could live off the map or undercover. What kind of work they wanted to do afterwards was a little more complicated, but they were sure they could figure something out. 

It’d started to become an inside joke between them, even. While doing a stint at Watchpoint Reykjavik, Jesse had sent Hanzo a picture of a man herding his sheep across the road, halting traffic. It’d been accompanied by a text message: “New career Y/N?” And then: “I don’t know how to raise sheep, but we could learn.” 

A month later, they’d been on a mission together when Jesse pointed out a houseboat and suggested they could live in one of those. “Where will you keep the sheep, though?” Hanzo had asked. Whether it was the absolute absurdity of the idea or Hanzo’s sincere tone, Jesse had ended up doubled over laughing with tears in his eyes. 

Though they joked, the future still made Hanzo nervous. There was plenty of time before they had to worry about making any decisions, but for a man who’d had his entire life planned out since he was born and then spent ten years living as if he had no future at all, it was overwhelming. 

A tentative hand slid across Hanzo’s stomach. It snuck under the open flannel shirt he’d borrowed and settled warm on his waist as Jesse shifted closer. 

“You alright? Seems like something’s botherin’ you.”

There would be no lying to Jesse. Hanzo didn’t want to burden him with his apprehensions, but if he tried to brush Jesse’s question off, that would only make him more concerned. 

Hanzo rolled onto his side, feeling the hand on his waist travel to the small of his back where it rubbed idly. Looking into Jesse’s eyes, he had to bite back the instinctive urge to tell him nothing was wrong. 

“We have talked about what might come after Overwatch, but I still worry.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. I have never been in a situation like this before.” 

Jesse waited while Hanzo struggled with his words. This was one of those difficult topics—one Hanzo had been trying to feel out for a while now, but the shape of it confused him. It seemed to shift under his hands. He thought he understood it—knew what it was—only to come back to it later and find that it’d changed again. Even now he wasn’t sure he had it right, but maybe in trying to describe it, he would hit upon some truth.

“My future has never been defined by what I wanted; it has always been a matter of what must be done. Now the future is whatever we choose. I should be excited. I am excited…” Hanzo trailed off uncertainly. 

Jesse nodded. “But you’re a lil nervous, too?”

“Aren’t you? What if we make the wrong choice? Once we leave Overwatch, nothing is certain; all of these plans that we are making could fall apart so easily. There are times when”—guilt choked Hanzo for a moment, but he swallowed it down—“I miss the way life was before, with the clan. My life may have been complicated, but my path was clear. Every decision I made was for a purpose greater than myself, and so long as I acted for the good of the clan, I knew that I had done the right thing.”

Jesse’s brow furrowed, and his mouth twisted. Hanzo could easily imagine what he must be thinking: “That same logic is what nearly got Genji killed.” He would be right. Hanzo wasn’t arguing that staying with the clan would be better—simply that his traitorous heart still longed for it at times. 

Instead, Jesse said, “I can get wantin’ to cling to the past. In our line of work, it’s normal to be afraid o’ whatever tomorrow might bring. Anything could go wrong any day of the week.”

“That is not comforting.”

“Maybe not, but hear me out. Any day could be the day something goes wrong, but most days, it doesn’t. And if something does go wrong, well, we’ve survived until now, haven’t we? We’ll pull through, just like we always have.” 

Jesse unthreaded their fingers so that he could lay his prosthetic hand over the top of Hanzo’s, the fingers warmed from his touch but the palm still cool, the metal solid and grounding. 

“It’s all right t’ prepare for the worst, but there’s no harm in hoping for the best.” And then Jesse said something that struck at Hanzo’s core: “The universe ain’t gonna punish you for wantin’ a little happiness in your life.”

Hanzo sucked in a breath. That wasn’t what he… No, that was exactly it. After all this time, he still feared some form of retribution for his past evils. He had reclaimed his life piece by piece, forever expecting for this or that indulgence to finally prove one too many. Letting himself look how he wished, eat what he liked, care for himself, express his feelings, trust others to be there for him—he told himself he was allowed these things now, but deep down he didn’t really believe it. He didn’t deserve forgiveness or family. He didn’t deserve a second chance. He didn’t deserve Jesse. Surely sooner or later, some greater force would realize that and seek to balance the scales. 

Zenyatta would disagree. They’d had a similar discussion once. It’d started as a conversation about the roots of the Shambali Order, which then turned to the merits of the Eastern teachings it was founded on. Hanzo had been the one to cautiously broach the topic of how different Genji had become under Zenyatta’s tutelage. Jesse and Angela had both hesitantly described what Genji was like when they first met him: all that pain and anger, all that doubt. The man who was able to move past Hanzo’s betrayal and forgive him was nothing like the Genji he’d once known or the Genji who’d joined Blackwatch. 

Zenyatta explained that for Genji, forgiveness was necessary to let go of the animosity that was poisoning his ability to love—both himself and the world around him. So long as he carried his anger with him, it would have continued to influence his path. It wasn’t about what Hanzo had or hadn’t done to deserve it—it was about what Genji needed so that he could heal. 

Although Hanzo had seen the logic of his words, he hadn’t been satisfied by them. It didn’t explain why Genji had invited him to join Overwatch or his attempts to repair their relationship. It made no sense to welcome someone who had hurt him so irreversibly back into his life. 

Zenyatta said that this, too, was a part of healing. Genji was practicing the purest form of love as the Shambali taught it. Love should be open and simple, compassionate, unifying. All were one within the Iris; the truest path to enlightenment was, therefore, by lifting one another up so that all might attain it together. Genji had seen Hanzo wandering in the same darkness he had once struggled through, so he had sought to ease his suffering. He needed no other reason. 

_“But I did not earn it,”_ Hanzo had snapped, frustrated.

Zenyatta was silent for a long time before he finally spoke. Hanzo was used to the omnic’s unending patience and understanding. That day, Hanzo saw a side of him that he hadn’t before: 

_“Forgiveness is not a transaction,”_ Zenyatta said. _“Whatever you choose to do, it will not erase your past actions, nor will it change Genji’s feelings on the matter. The only person still suffering now is you, and for what? Your suffering accomplishes nothing. It teaches nothing, and it improves nothing. It is not your suffering that has made you a better person, and no amount of it will ever be enough to pay the debt you imagine you owe—because that’s just what it is: imaginary.”_

Left blindsided and reeling, Hanzo had quietly excused himself. he had not discussed such topics with Zenyatta since then. 

“Hey,” Jesse murmured, “you’ve been quiet for a while now. Did I upset you?” 

“No,” Hanzo hurried to reassure. “I am not upset. Merely thinking.”

“Yeah?”

There was a silent invitation in Jesse’s tone. He wouldn’t push, but if Hanzo needed to talk, he’d listen. It was a tempting offer. Sometimes when he struggled with confusing or seemingly complex matters, putting them into words revealed them to be quite simple, or Jesse would provide a much needed outsider’s perspective. 

He wasn’t sure he was ready for this conversation just yet, though, so instead, Hanzo made a show of pursing his lips and furrowing his brow dramatically before he said, “I was entertaining the thought of retiring to a lakeside cabin, but I have decided against it.”

Jesse rolled his eyes as a grin pulled across his face. “How come?”

Hanzo gave him a solemn look. “I refuse to become the sort of person who would own a lake cabin.” 

“What does that mean?”

“I mean it becomes an entire personality. Think about it. We would need a boat for the lake. Naturally, we would then need the sort of truck meant for pulling a boat. We would have to keep them up to certain standards even if we never use them. We would have neighbors no matter how rural the area who would pressure us to entertain or to visit their own cabins. We would have to start keeping wine for such occasions—and it would have to be the sort of wine one drinks at the lake, like a boxed Rosé. Actually, any wine would probably work so long as it comes in a box with a spigot like some picnic refreshment. And all the stores nearby would exclusively sell the sort of clothes that only lake cabin people wear, which means sooner or later our entire wardrobes would become nothing but polos, boat shoes, fleece vests, and tacky shirts about the joys of living on a lake.”

Hanzo had actually never considered living on a lake before, but as he played the scenario out, he became impassioned. He sat up and gestured with sharp sweeps of his arms as he spoke. Jesse, for his part, lay on the bed laughing noiselessly, his chest heaving and a hand pressed to his face. 

“Then there are the lake activities themselves. We would be expected to participate in at least one. I confess I do have some skill in bowfishing, but if I were to involve myself in fishing, it would go one of two ways: I would either be constantly dragged into inane, hours-long conversations about the fine art of traditional fishing by men who devote their free time to crafting their own lures, or bowfishing would suddenly become an insufferable fad in the local area that would surely erode my own passion for the sport.”

Jesse wheezed. 

“And don’t get me started on hunting season and super bowl parties. I have participated in neither, but I’ve seen enough American TV, and at this point, I’ve reached the upsetting conclusion that none of it is exaggerated.”

“Okay, okay! You win. No lake house.” Jesse sat up and patted Hanzo’s thigh like he was tapping out of a wrestling match. A couple of stray chuckles escaped him as he rubbed his hands down his face. 

Hanzo waited while Jesse caught his breath. Jesse’s hair had become disheveled, and his face was red from laughing so hard. Hanzo spotted the glimmer of a tear on his lashes before he wiped it away. Jesse was a handsome man to be certain, but Hanzo loved him so much more when he looked like this with his nose scrunched up and his smile so wide his cheeks became round apples while he struggled to compose himself. 

Hanzo found himself wondering what Jesse would look like in five, ten, even twenty years. Crow’s feet already marked the corners of his eyes. More wrinkles would come with time, new roads on the map of his face. Maybe another scar or two as well, depending on his luck. Would his hair eventually turn gray or white? Would age make him leaner or softer? Hanzo hoped for the latter. 

In that moment, he realized: he might just get to grow old with Jesse. He hadn’t entertained the idea of growing old in… a very long time. When he was a young man, he detested the idea of aging because it meant becoming slower, weaker, and less capable. Somewhere down the line, though, he put the notion aside entirely. If he lived a full life—even a life as long as his father’s—it would be a miracle. When he left the Shimada Clan, he knew he had sealed his fate. 

Now the future stretched before Hanzo, gossamer-thin like a spider’s web and just as fragile, but very, very real. And it included Jesse. The thought was… terrifying. Exhilarating. Intoxicating. And Hanzo desperately wanted it.

Hanzo felt Jesse’s fingers brush the back of his hand. He turned, caught Jesse’s hand in his, and dove in for a kiss. Jesse let out a surprised hum against his lips before kissing back. When Hanzo shifted to the corner of his mouth and then up his cheek, Jesse laughed, the sound light and bubbling. 

“What brought this on?”

Hanzo pulled back and cupped Jesse’s face in his hands. “Grow old with me, Jesse.”

Jesse let out another bubbling laugh. His cheeks were dark, and he couldn’t quite look Hanzo in the eye. “That was the plan, darlin’.”

“Good,” Hanzo said. “Good,” he repeated, softer. He slid his fingers up into Jesse’s hair, petting idly, watching as Jesse’s eyes slipped closed. When Jesse leaned closer, Hanzo pulled him into a hug. Jesse’s lips brushed his jaw and the shell of his ear before his head came to rest on Hanzo’s shoulder. Their knees pressed together awkwardly, and Hanzo suspected Jesse’s back ached from the position as much as his did, but he would happily stay that way as long as possible.

“Hey,” Jesse said. Hanzo tightened his grip, and Jesse let out a puff of laughter against his shoulder. “Don’t be like that now. I’m not goin’ anywhere. I need to know, though: you eaten since you got back?”

“Not yet,” Hanzo admitted. 

“When’d you eat last?”

“Just before we left Busan.”

“So not since this morning.”

When Jesse moved to stand, Hanzo clung stubbornly for a moment before relenting and letting him escape. He watched Jesse stretch. He grunted as his back popped. His jacket—Hanzo’s jacket—rode up over his hips to flash a hint of stomach and a faded surgery scar. Hanzo wished he could take another picture and save the moment forever. 

“Come on,” Jesse said, “it’s almost supper time anyhow. Let’s get you taken care of.” 

Hanzo let Jesse draw him to his feet and towards the door, then out into the hall. Warmth curled in Hanzo’s chest when he realized Jesse hadn’t let go of his hand and showed no intention of doing so. 

“Out of curiosity,” Jesse said as they walked, “what’s your opinion on beach houses?”

“Depends on the coast. I am not partial to the Atlantic Ocean.”

“I was thinkin’ the Mediterranean.”

“I’m listening.”


End file.
